


a long way home

by Vicepresidents



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-25
Updated: 2018-05-25
Packaged: 2019-05-13 09:08:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14745941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vicepresidents/pseuds/Vicepresidents
Summary: There are some words that take miles and years to say.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry, much like a great number of people, doesn’t end up getting what he came for at the grocery store.

New York, January 2020

 

It’s 2020 and unlike the Mayans or some radical religious sects had been proclaiming, it wasn’t the end of the world. Even though it sure feels like it.

Harry takes a few moments to admire the soft rosy scent of his sheets and to rub his cheek at the smooth cotton. That’s exactly what he’s doing and he’s absolutely not fixating on the dull thud of a post drinking binge headache building behind his eyes. 

Last night was a fuzzy haze in Harry’s mind and his inhibitions clocked out seven minutes into the New Year once Ned (or Jed? or Nelson? was Jelson a real name?) dragged them both into Harry’s room which remained locked for the remainder of the party.

“Morning,” Harry says, both like a salutation and a question.

“Afternoon, really,” Ned, Jed, Nelson, Jelson croaks into Harry’s hair. “Didn’t want to leave before you woke up.”

Harry shifts on the bed and cracks one eye open, peering feebly at his room’s other current occupant. He is fully dressed, his white button down from last night slightly creased, and his hair is slicked to the side and smelling like Harry’s pomade. 

“The non-disclosure,” he continues, frowning at Harry like Harry is supposed understand what that means whilst pre-caffeinated and hungover.

“Right,” Harry answers and still it sounds like a question.

“Kim slipped this into the room at God-knows-what-o-clock. Doesn’t take a genius to figure out what it is so I signed it already.”

He sounds miffed and Harry gives his head an almighty shake, like maybe physically jostling his brain would reset it. He takes the folder being handed to him and spends an embarrassing amount of time parsing the single paragraph on the one sheet of paper.

“Ah,” Harry says, “this non-disclosure.”

“My student loans thank you, Mr. Styles,” Jared (he’s positive it’s Jared), says, smiling that cocksure smile of his that led them to Harry’s bedroom in the first place. “Not that I sought out to, like, earn a buck and a fuck all in a span of 12 hours.”

Harry sees a hint of hazel in Jared’s eyes but there’s a sharp edge that makes Harry think of stained balsa wood instead of thick, sweet honey. He’s American, probably from Boston if Harry’s being presumptuous, probably a friend of a cousin of a band mate who seemed decent and looked cute enough that someone at the door gave him the OK. 

“I’m sorry that my publicist, and me by extension, is making you feel like a prostitute.” Harry inwardly cringes at his lack of filter.

“It’s cool,” Jared says, grinning, “It’s a mutually beneficial transaction.”

Kim must have been the one to OK Jared at the door since those words were exactly something only she would say without any ounce of shame. Harry will deal with her later. He fumbles for a pen on his side table and sits up, proceeds to sign above his full name in one fluid stroke.

Harry feels the warmth of a hand on his bare hip and Jared leans in and says, “One for the road?” His eyes dart from Harry’s eyes down to his lips.

With his filter slowly coming back, Harry manages not to blurt out, “blow job or kiss?” and simply presses his lips over Jared’s mouth, soft and lingering, pulling back only when he feels Jared’s tongue dart out.

“Worth a shot.” Jared shrugs before making his way off the bed and heading towards the door.

“I usually have a better bedside manner, but,” Harry throws his arms to the side, motioning at the two empty bottles of Jäger and the dozens of crushed beer cans littered on the carpet, “You just had to introduce me to one of your college rituals.”

That pulls out a laugh from Jared. “Well then my work here is done.” He gives Harry one final wave then clicks the door shut. Harry waits until he no longer hears footsteps before easing his way to the door and locking it.

Harry is half a second into riffling through the sheets for his phone before he hears it ringing somewhere inside his bathroom.

“Well?” He’s greeted by a low voice and he doesn’t need to see Kim’s face to know she has a cigarette in one hand and a smirk on her lips.

“You’re fired,” Harry says.

Kim is still laughing when Harry puts her on speakerphone and he slumps back on his bed.

“I’m serious this time, Miss Lee-Chua.”

“Ah, I guess it is serious since you’re using my last name now.”

“Was his real name even Jared?”

“If you still don’t know his name after seeing it on the NDA, I’m guessing you’re still slightly inebriated. Am I right or am I correct?”

Harry takes another look at the folder and huffs. 

“Don’t prostitutes usually have a name they use when they’re working?”

“Harry,” Kim says, voice losing its color from before. She says, very pointedly, “Jared is not a prostitute.”

“But you brought him here last night?”

“No,” Kim says, then adds, “Clare did. At my request.”

Harry burrows his head further into one of the pillows, words muffled when he continues to talk.

“To be fair, there were other people I’ve vetted who, at the most, have a three degree separation from your circle of friends.”

“ _People_?”

“Nick brought Tala, Zoe brought Juan Carlos, Ben brought Rienne—”

“Jesus, this is worse than setting me up with a prostitute. You’re whoring me out.”

Harry hears a series of sharp breaths from the other line and imagines Kim letting smoke out of her mouth through her teeth. Harry is grateful for the distance between him and Kim and her 3-inch manicured nails.

“Harry, I didn’t want you moping on New Year’s Eve. Especially at your own party.”

Harry sighs. “I figured.” 

“And if it led to sex, that was your choice. And his.” After a beat, Kim says, “Oh God, he didn’t force you or anything?”

“No, no, nothing like that.”

“One hundred percent consensual and coherent?”

“One hundred percent consensual,” Harry says, “and around 89% coherent.”

Kim sighs. “That’s as good as I hoped.”

Harry lays prone on the bed, tucking his phone between his chest and chin. 

“I still think making a person sign a non-disclosure agreement after a shag sort of ruins the morning-after.”

“You know I’m just doing my job, doll.”

Harry can let the remaining amount of alcohol in his bloodstream lead his train of thought two ways;

One is where he stews in cynicism and re-evaluates what he’s doing with his life.

He’s 25, aware he’s going through a quarter life crisis, and finds himself waking up in the morning but notices how some vital parts of himself remain fast asleep. The last half decade have been nothing to scoff at— three solo albums within a three year span, two solo world tours, a book deal, a cameo in a David Fincher movie, and an actual headlining role under Christopher Nolan’s wing. His mother sends letters through the post in response to the polaroids Harry mails to her about once or twice a month. It’s much better than the Cloud, she wrote back the first time, and Harry’s been sending her snapshots of his life from wherever in the world he might be. Gemma is never more than a phone call away, though it was comparably easier to get a hold of your sister when she’s wasn’t at the mercy of a chubby-cheeked, green-eyed 8-month-old.

Harry is fine. He’s great. But sometimes the limelight is bright enough to blind or worse, hot enough to burn.

And on the other hand, there’s a thought train that steers him away from self-deprecation, away from digging in too deep into his psyche. Harry could take a moment, use the pounding in his head like a metronome and try to plan out the rest of his day.

Harry opts for the latter, always opts for the latter. He shelves a multitude of untouched worries, files them away for his perusal on another day he’s maudlin enough and sentimental enough. Lately, those days come more often than not.

Harry sees his phone battery draining fast and he switches Kim off from speaker, putting his phone right next to his ear. The next words Harry hears are loud and clear.

“You’ll have to talk about it to someone someday. It doesn’t have to be me and it doesn’t have to be now, but it needs to happen sooner or later.”

A moment passes and Harry contemplates pretending that the call got dropped.

Instead he needlessly asks, “Do I have anything scheduled today?” Harry rolls off the bed, toeing at the discarded clothes on the floor and sweeping them next to the laundry basket.

Kim lets out a quick harsh breath but doesn’t press on and Harry is grateful.

“Three things,” Kim says, “First, hygiene. Second, sustenance. Third, recalibration.”

Harry stretches his arms, sandwiching his phone between his ear and his shoulder. “Shower, eat, nap. Got it.”

Harry hears the faint sound of a car honking from Kim’s end of the line.

“My Uber is here. Unlike some people, my to-do list requires me to get my ass off my bed before noon hits.”

“My ass has been off my bed, thanks,” Harry counters, counting it as a win that he’s made his way down the stairs without tripping.

“Oh and you’re out of bananas,” Kim says just as Harry spots the steel banana-holder sans the bananas. “I made smoothies for the people that helped clean up this morning.”

Harry is about express his indignance when the line cuts off and Harry’s phone shuts down with a forlorn beep.

Having not employed a PA and having Kim pretty much micromanaging much of Harry’s professional and some of his personal life, Harry sometimes finds himself doing errands, grabbing some groceries or even doing a coffee run for himself. He’s been living in the same place in Tribeca for the past three years and the double takes and the secretly taken photos he’s been in the receiving end of has dwindled significantly.

Harry is out the door in 15 minutes flat, fueled by his hunger and general need of fresh air. New York is the most quiet it ever is during this time— mid-afternoon on January first. It usually always is, what with the crashing and banging and merriment already used up by its inhabitants by the time the first sunrise of the year greets the city. 

There’s a surprising amount of people milling around the supermarket when Harry gets there. He pulls the hood of his jacket further down his face. It serves a dual purpose of keeping his anonymity and shielding his eyes from the cruel glare of the industrial grade fluorescent lights. 

He’s halfway through his shopping list, perusing the dairy section, when he feels a tap on his shoulder. Harry turns and that feeling of the world ending when he woke up? It’s back in full swing. 

Harry could leave, he muses. He’ll get his almonds and kale and corn husks at another Whole Foods and maybe that Whole Foods hasn’t run out of the particular cereal his cupboard is currently missing. He could leave, and move, and gun it out of aisle 14 with the grace of a baby gazelle.

But Harry was never the runner between the two of them. Zayn was the best at running.

“You— your yogurt’s spilling,” Zayn says.

“Ah,” Harry starts, “Thought it was funny that my elbow was starting to feel cold.”

Zayn makes this sound and Harry realizes he’s laughing. He hasn’t heard it up close in ages and it tugs at something in Harry’s mind. Like picking on an itch at the raised flesh of a scar that’s long been healed.

“Yeah.” Zayn draws his palm over his mouth, as if wiping the remnants of a smile on his face. “I should—,” his brows knit together, jaw working like he’s grinding down on the words between his teeth, “I should go.”

There’s a handful of moments in Harry’s life that seem to pass by in slow motion. Zayn turns away and it takes decades. Like Harry has all the time to reach out and tug on the hem of his jacket and pull. Harry’s feet are firmly planted on the ground which makes it odd that he feels like the Earth is trying to topple him over. Dimly, he sees Zayn turn back to face him and just like that, time revs back to normal speed.

Zayn fidgets, that much hasn’t changed. It’s the same pair of hands Harry had once known so dearly that’s currently tangled at the hem of Zayn’s shirt. Eyes, the same. A soft hazel. The color of honey. Harry drinks in the sight of Zayn and later he will tell himself he was weak because of last night’s alcohol in his veins, and he will tell himself later this is why he didn’t walk away.

“I know this is a shit thing to say, probably shouldn’t be thinking about it.” Zayn mumbles the last bit but Harry makes the words out clearly anyway, “But I miss you.”

It definitely is a shit thing to say. Unfair, belated, uncalled for, inappropriate. But Harry is smiling and it’s easy, he’s so easy, he’s always been so easy for the boy in front of him. He sees Zayn’s fingers twitch and it’s again so easy to remember just how perfectly Zayn’s thumb had fit over the small divot on Harry’s cheek.

The year is 2020 and it’s not the end of the world. But it’s the end of something. And the end begins in a soft place deep between Harry’s ribs, near enough his lungs that he’s out of breath despite standing stock still, feet stuck on the sticky linoleum floor in an unremarkable grocery store. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This just spilled out at one in the morning and I’d be lying if I said this universe hasn’t been laying dormant in my brain for the last four years or so.
> 
> I’m positive this won’t be a linear narrative and updates will be sporadic but each chapter should be able to stand by itself as a one-shot but also make more sense of each other as more installments get posted. Please cry with me on Tumblr and update me on the Stuff I’ve Missed because it’s a heck of a lot stuff of, I’m sure.
> 
> PS: I did the bare minimum when it came to fact checking so I apologize for the hand-wavey canon. If you spot any errors, let me know!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry remembers two things when he gets home:
> 
> 1\. He’s still out of bananas;  
> 2\. How to be angry

“So.”

Harry vaguely motions to the entirety of his loft after shutting the door. His eyes do a quick and futile sweep of the area— the kitchen’s decent apart from the sticky pile of beer cans and Pilsner bottles at the foot of the already overflowing garbage bin, there are yellow Solo cups upturned and drying on paper towels on every available flat surface in the living room, and there are three pairs of shoes that don’t belong to him by the foot of the stairs leading to the second floor.

“So this is,” he gestures with both his arms, “this is it.”

Zayn takes a tentative step into Harry’s house.

“S’nice.” 

Zayn has yet to look up from where he’s burning a hole into the floor, much less cast a passing glance at anything that isn’t the laces of his sneakers.

“Thanks,” Harry says.

There was nothing particularly noteworthy about the cab ride back to Harry’s place . If there was even a hint of recognition in their driver’s eyes when he looked at the pair of them through his rear view mirror, it was shrouded behind his tinted aviators and the only two words he ever spoke were, ‘no change’ when Zayn handed him a fifty dollar bill.

Zayn had looked straight ahead, hands folded on his lap, head lightly propped against the car window. Harry played with the four rings on his fingers, hands idly bereft of the phone he’s usually clutching when he’s got nothing to say or do.

The four minutes they spent in the grocery store felt like centuries ago. Harry continued to mindlessly pile food items into his cart, not really checking if they were part of his list, or even something he needed, or something he wants. Zayn had followed him and lingered behind, no cart or basket in hand, and when Harry looked back for what felt like the hundredth time and failed to catch Zayn’s eye, Harry had suggested getting a cup of coffee at his place, leaving his half empty cart by the rice aisle.

“You might trip, you know,” Harry says now, blocking Zayn’s way so he doesn’t stumble into Harry’s bookshelf. “Or run into a wall.”

Zayn looks up. He tilts his head slightly to meet Harry’s eyes because of the two, three inches Harry has on him. 

“It’s the least I deserve, yeah?” 

Zayn smiles but it’s more of a baring of teeth. He pushes his hands into the pockets of his jeans like he’s weighing himself down and planting his feet more firmly on the floor. He’s still looking at Harry but he’s not the boy looking at him at the grocery store not more than half an hour ago.

“I don’t know why you’re here,” Harry says, “I mean I know I did offer coffee but it turns out that was one of the things on my grocery list too.”

Zayn takes a step back, not quite bowing his head like he was before but he’s not looking at Harry anymore.

“I thought you’d know,” Zayn says.

Harry rarely got angry. It was a childish emotion and it had no place inside of him. He doesn’t know what to do now that it’s creeping up, a tempered sort of rage making his throat click and his eyes water. Harry laughs but there’s no humor and he never ever wants to feel like this ever again.

“You thought I’d know?”

Zayn backs away further until he’s stepping on the Welcome mat by Harry’s front door.

“Zayn,” Harry grits out and a small, treacherous part of him thrills at getting to say that name out loud again. “Why would you— you’re honestly—”

Harry rarely got angry because anger had never been his friend. It tied his tongue and clouded his vision and it felt like his lungs were too big and there was never enough air around him to fill them up.

“I should just leave,” Zayn says and Harry hears all the versions of those words said before, in a dodgy rental car, in dozens of hotel rooms, in the confines of a tiny tattoo parlor, in the tour bus, in the sound booth of a recording studio,  and just recently at a grocery store where Harry’s heart had started to thaw and kickstarted back into life.

“Then go,” Harry says, and both him and Zayn know Harry has never said that in reply before. “It’s what your good at.”

Zayn doesn’t move but he eases his hands from his pockets and lets his arms hang from each side.

“You know, I’ve stopped smoking,” Zayn says, like Harry hadn’t said anything at all. He continues when Harry doesn’t acknowledge or interrupt him. “Cigarettes. Last year. Hardest thing I’ve had to quit.” He takes a breath looking Harry in the eye. “The second hardest thing I had to quit.”

Zayn takes a half step forward and Harry crosses his arms over his chest.

“Mum was ecstatic. Said it’s my best resolution since handing my Twitter to the PR team. Personally I think 2016 was the best. Started drawing again, that year. Like proper canvas and pastels and all that. One page everyday even if it was just a quick caricature of some bloke with his dog in the street.”

Harry doesn’t move forward when Zayn does, but he doesn’t move back either.

“Two years ago I set up an account in the bank,” Zayn says, “like one of those retirement funds you never touch until you were 80.”

There’s only a single yard of space separating Harry from Zayn. Harry holds his breath, afraid of what he’d do if in the scant three feet of air keeping them apart vanished.

“You always told me I was rubbish at keeping promises,” Zayn says, “But I’d like to think I’ve changed.”

“Am I supposed to be impressed?” 

Zayn shrugs. He bites at his smile, shaking his head. 

They stand in silence because Harry gets the sense it’s his turn to talk and Zayn looks at him like he’s waiting. Like he’s been waiting. And isn’t that just a kick in the teeth.

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

Harry immediately wants to take the words back when he notices that Zayn is frowning again.

“It’s not about what I want you to say. It’s about—”

Harry never gets to hear the rest when Zayn’s phone starts ringing. Zayn mouths a silent curse before answering.

“Hello?”

“Yeah, JFK.”

“My flight’s 3:00? Last time I checked it was five.” 

He looks at Harry before saying, “I missed the one in the morning. Um, fell asleep at the lounge. Yeah. I’ll see you. Yeah. Bye.”

“You flew here?” Harry chooses to ask, knowing the answer.

“Yeah,” Zayn says. He cards his hand through his hair, frustrated. “I actually need to go, but can we do this again?”

“You mean the part where you talk and I want to yell at you, or the part where I talk and you won’t talk back to me at all?”

“The part where we actually get to sit down and have that cup of coffee,” Zayn says. “If you still want.”

And isn’t that the most absurd thing Harry has ever heard? Of course he wants. When doesn’t he want? When has he ever stopped wanting? 

“Fine,” he says and Harry pretends his hand doesn’t shake when he offers his palm, motioning Zayn to give his phone. “Mine’s dead and neither of us have each other’s number.”

“Okay.”

Zayn takes his phone back and this time Harry can’t pretend that his hand isn’t shaking when their fingers brush. Zayn smiles and Harry finds himself looking at the boy from the grocery store again.

“I’ll call,” Zayn says, turning slightly so he can open the front door. 

Harry snorts. “You’ll call.” 

“I told you,” Zayn says, smiling, “I’m better at keeping promises now.”

Zayn’s got a foot out of the door when Harry says, “Wait.”

Zayn spins around to face him.

It’s odd, Harry thinks, how much a heart can remember. If memories were water, there wouldn’t be a trench deep enough in the world for Harry to keep every bit of the Zayn in. They’d have spilled a thousand times over and displaced oceans. And those memories actually did spill over, all over Harry’s life, whether Harry was aware of it or not. The rings were a waste to throw out but he’d set himself on fire before giving them away. Harry would find himself stuffing his shelves with books he had no intention of reading and there are stacks of bracelets, metal, wooden, and woven, stuffed into his sock drawer, that he’s yet to wear. There were the obvious ones, like the songs Harry wrote. The songs were for Zayn but more importantly they were for Harry too. For him to remember, but also to make it easier to forget. Self-preservation. 

Harry blinks and remembers to ask, “So what is it this year?”

“What do you mean?” Zayn says.

“Your New Year’s resolution.”

Zayn bites his lip. “I don’t want to say. I’m afraid I might jinx it.”

“Well, we don’t want that,” Harry says, “wouldn’t want to break your streak.”

“Right.”

Zayn’s already out the door when he says, “Happy New Year, Harry.”

There’s a split second where Zayn lingers and before Harry can decide if he should reach out to him, Zayn is gone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic took on a life of its own because this wasn’t how I planned it out in my head. There’s more questions than answers, I’m aware, but all in good time. Also Canon Things have been... overwhelming so I needed to vent again and get this part of the series over with.


End file.
